


Things On Your Chest You Need to Confess

by orphan_account



Category: Dunkirk (2017) RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fionn's a Confused Baby Dom, Gags, Harry's A Brat, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 04:24:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21048251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "He doesn’t mean it. Not really. Lately there’s nothing Fionn enjoys more than Harry’s voice despite what he may use it for. But not now. Not when Harry’s throwing himself at Fionn and he doesn’t know how to respond because how could he? Right now he needs Harry to stop. He needs to feel the control that he left at the door when he trailed in on Harry’s heels."Inspired by Harry shameless flirting and Fionn's obvious baby dom tendencies.





	Things On Your Chest You Need to Confess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vondrostes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vondrostes/gifts).

> Happy birthday Terran! Thank you for every single thing you've written, for being the pushy friend I need, and for the pairings nobody else will give me! Enjoy the bratrry you deserve.

“Why do you do that?” Fionn asks, as he and Harry get out of the taxi, Harry crouching through the open front-passenger-side window to thank the driver for the third time. They’d ridden in a sleek black Mercedes and as they step into the taxi rank and the afternoon’s drizzle, they could be mistaken for any of the other city workers stood by.

“Do what?” Harry’s already straightening up and brushing himself down, bracing for the familiar click of shutters or the sound of his name whispered in excited breaths. When neither sound, he makes his way around the car to Fionn. “Thank the driver?” They’ve been doing interviews all day, and Harry’s shirt’s beginning to loosen at his hip, and his collar’s uneven where the silk’s caught at his neck and pulled.

Fionn shakes his head. “No.” He falls into step beside Harry as they make their way through the slick automatic doors and into the hotel lobby. “Why do you do that in interviews? Wind them up, I mean.” Fionn pauses to fish his passport out of his bag to give to the receptionist. “Why do you say that stuff?” They stand in the short queue for check in. Fionn wonders when Harry last queued.

Harry turns to him, frowning. “What stuff?” he speaks with a wet lisp, his lips stretched around his own passport he’s wedged between his teeth while he reaches down and tucks in his shirt.

“About me coaxing you,” Fionn reaches up, and without thinking takes the bobbing edge of Harry’s passport between his fingertips, meeting Harry’s eye with a challenge and gently tugging it from his mouth. “Into things you don’t want to do.”

Harry’s mouth, still pursed open around the ghost of his passport, slides into a grin. “Excuse me. I never said anything about being coaxed into anything I didn’t want to do.” He pauses before deciding to emphasise his point. His shirt’s tucked back in now, and he gives Fionn the unnerving benefit of his full attention. “I never said I didn’t want to,” he takes his passport back, almost grabbing. “Be coaxed, I mean,” his smirk breaks and he flashes his teeth, “by you.”

Before Fionn can respond, Harry wheels round to face the receptionist, one elbow bent and resting along the top of the check-in desk. His head’s bowed to speak personally and directly to the them at eye level in a soft polite voice Fionn doesn’t often hear, and he’s no doubt throwing their entire afternoon off.

Harry finishes the check in for the both of them and turns back to Fionn, two key cards between his fingers, his passport tucked behind them. He nods over towards the lifts at the far end of the reception area before leaning in close and asking with a pantomime wink, “coming?” Fionn flushes, his ears and nape of his neck burning. He says nothing while they’re in the lift.

The second they’re in the room, Harry’s sprawls on his stomach across the bed nearest the window, propped up at the elbows and texting. His legs are bent at the knee and he’s bouncing them gently in turn, the soles of his boots pointed towards the ceiling as he intwines and then unwraps them.

Fionn rests awkwardly on the edge of the bed Harry’s left unoccupied and shrugs out of his coat. He’d get up and hang it up but he doesn’t really want to disturb the silence Harry’s actively cultivating. Hasn’t really got anything to say, and what he could say, he doesn’t want Harry to hear.

Only Fionn’s already begun the discussion, perhaps unwittingly, perhaps misguidedly, but he opened that particular can of worms when he drew attention to Harry’s behaviour in interviews. And to even think of it like that - his behaviour - is embarrassing. Because this is Harry’s job, not his personal life. Even here, in the shared hotel room that neither of them have referenced, they’re at work. And Fionn’s reading too much into a few flirty comments and knowing looks when Harry seems to be thriving off their dynamic. Their friendship.

But it’s too much. The way Harry’s always the last to complain and the first out of his clothes. The way he holds onto Fionn’s elbow sometimes when they talk and clearly thinks nothing of it. Because he doesn’t have to. Because it’s just holding a fucking elbow. In the way Harry’s sure of himself, the way he knows what he wants, and who he is, and if he’s embarassed about it he does a fucking good job of covering it. And Harry’s probably scared, he has to be, they all are, because they’re young and they’re working with giants and it’s painfully cold all the time and this is the one they’ll tell their children about. Harry’s even admitted as much, around the refreshment table with Aneurin. He’d looked them all in the eye and said, “I’m fucking this up.” Fionn didn’t know if he meant the scene, or the film, or the transition from singer to actor or everything in between, but he’d just said it. Fionn had spent hours trying to draft a text to his mum that said as much without worrying her, but Harry had sauntered over to the table, tin of SPAM in one hand and a styrofoam cup of coffee in the other, and just blurted it out, unashamed.

How could Fionn not see everything that Harry has, everything he brings with him and gives to everyone and takes away at the end of the day to his room with his records and his candles and his two phones and his constant stream of friends. How could Fionn not want to attach himself to Harry like a barnacle to a ship and refuse to let go.

But in the dry silence of their presumably shared room, with only the air conditioning unit and Harry’s deep meditative breathing to disturb him, Fionn feels the most unprepared and nervous he’s felt in weeks. He’s picking at the skin beside his thumb nail, and he’s close to pulling too far and having an open sore that stings every time it’s wet with sea water. He can almost hear Harry’s reaction - “It’s right though, init? It’s real. Might rough my hands up a bit, actually,” and he wants to laugh but he’s scared that if he relaxes his throat enough to do that he might cry. His eyes flit over to Harry, still lounging across the bed, oblivious to Fionn’s turmoil.

Fionn knows he’s going to look at Harry’s arse before he does it, and as though he can feel Fionn’s eyes on him, Harry rolls onto his back, smirking.

“Everything alright?” Harry asks.

Fionn scours his brain for something interesting to say but settles on, “M’fine.”

Harry doesn’t buy it. “You look like you want to say something.” He shuffles to the end of the bed and gets up, walking over to take Fionn’s now discarded coat to the wardrobe.

Fionn hears the metallic clang of a coat hanger being fitted to a railing. “No-” Fionn begins. But Harry’s behind him, a warm presence he can feel through his clothes though they’re not touching.

“Like you want to coax me into something.”

“Harry,” Fionn warns. But there’s no heat behind it. His palms are sweaty but cold and Harry’s right there behind him and he can hardly breathe.

Before Fionn’s panic can choke him, Harry rests a hand delicately on Fionn’s shoulder and he can feel how soft his hand is and how surprisingly long his fingers are and he’s scrunching his eyes closed and he’s going to scream-

“I want you to. I want you to do it.”

The hand that rested so innocently on Fionn’s shoulder begins to trail down the length of his arm, and the feeling is electric through his shirt. Harry continues further south until his fingers are dancing across the fabric overlap of Fionn’s flies.

Harry rubs the flat of his palm in a firm circle over Fionn’s dick. “I’ll do whatever. You can do whatever you want to me.”

Fionn wheels around, dislodging Harry’s hand from his stiffening crotch. He grabs Harry by the shoulders before throwing his arms around him, overwhelmed and desperate. It's not really a hug. It's barely anything. Fionn whimpers into Harry’s shoulder, his knuckles white, clenching around a handful of Harry’s silk blouse. “Why won’t you just shut up?” Harry smells like detergent and the aftershave Fionn’s come to associate with an uncomfortable level of constant tension.

“Why won’t you admit you like it?” Harry pants into Fionn’s hair as he shudders against him.

“Fuck-” and Fionn’s grappling with the fabric at Harry’s back now, his hands almost numb as he runs the pads of his fingers beneath the silk and onto the sweat damp skin at Harry’s lower back.

Harry responds urgently, pushing Fionn to arm’s length and undoing as few buttons as he can get away with before ripping his shirt over his head and throwing it to one side. Something about the childish openness of Harry’s face and the wide grin plastered there has Fionn expecting a smooth hairless figure beneath Harry’s clothes. He’s seen him without a shirt before, but not like this. Not at a time when he can really look and plot out the intricacies of Harry’s body. Fionn’s rendered speechless when Harry reveals a wash of long wavy hairs across his chest and full bushy armpits.

“What do you want me to do?” Harry asks, running a hand through his fringe.

“I don’t know,” Fionn replies honestly.

“Do you want me to suck you?”

Fionn snaps instinctively, “shut up.”

Harry must misunderstand, must assume he’s got the roles reversed, because he toes off his boots before hastily unfastening his own trousers and stepping out of them quickly, tearing his boxers down his legs straight after. Then Fionn’s fully clothed and Harry’s naked and although there should be a shift in the power balance in the room there isn’t and Harry still somehow manages to dangle Fionn from his little finger as he stands there, hip cocked and dick full in front of him.

Fionn doesn’t know where to look, doesn’t know if he has permission to look. His eyes fall to Harry’s now-discarded boxers, bunched in a pile by his foot, they fall to the patch of fabric that was just seconds ago holding Harry’s dick flush against his body, and is now glistening with the damp pearlescent sheen of pre-come. Harry looks to Fionn for one breath before bending down to pick the boxers up and handing them to Fionn wordlessly.

Fionn’s blindsided. His mind’s running faster than he can keep up with and he feels so dizzy that he has to rest his free hand on his own hip and take a deep breath, the other bunched in the damp fabric. “Harry-”

“Can’t help it,” he pouts, and Harry’s voice is thick, and it’s juvenile, and he sounds as though he’s giving an excuse to a school teacher and Fionn reels.

With both hands, Fionn balls up the boxers, careful to leave the damp patch facing outwards, and meets Harry’s eye as he throws them onto the bed Harry chose. Toe to toe, Harry’s slightly taller, but his posture in front of Fionn now leaves him a few inches short. He’s hunched slightly, head bowed as he looks up past his eyebrows.

A quiet, uncertain and afraid part of Fionn is struggling, breathing deeply but unable to quench the burning need for air in his lungs. But a bigger, stronger and more insistent part of him gets rock hard at the thought of Harry like this. Because it’s Harry. Harry with his disarming manner. And his face. And the way he moves, the way he touches Fionn in the most assumedly platonic but strangely heated way that no other man has ever done. No other man has ever dared to do. To touch him with a softness and an unashamed affection in the way that Harry does. To give lingering hugs with open palms instead of heavy fists, and to run his fingers down Fionn’s back through the thick rigid cotton of their uniforms and look him dead in the eye when he speaks.

“Do it then,” Fionn breathes, his mouth dry and the words hoarse.

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice, any confusion apparently resolved as he drops unceremoniously to his knees and fights his way into Fionn’s trousers.

He draws Fionn’s dick from within his boxers and takes it into the burning heat of his mouth without pause. Fionn isn’t even sure if he’d been fully hard but knows with all certainty that he is now. Harry’s tongue follows the curve of Fionn’s dick and chases the vein beneath until Harry’s nose is almost flush to Fionn’s pubes. Rather than choking like Fionn expects, Harry slurps appreciatively up the length of him and begins to suckle firmly on the head, sending a warm shiver up Fionn’s spine as he feels the wetness of Harry’s saliva mesh with his own pre-come at his opening.

Unsurprisingly Harry’s unafraid to make a mess of himself or the carpet, dribbling hungrily down his chin and dripping onto the floor beneath them. He works one hand around Fionn’s dick, sucking on what’s left over with practiced firmness. Harry’s hand’s slick and almost foamy with spit and as he pulls off to take a loud throaty breath, the wetness is audible. He’s almost impatient as he forces himself back down onto Fionn, pushing the head of his dick stubbornly down his throat despite his body’s protest.

Fionn chances a glance at the scene before him and when he sees Harry’s dick standing wet and proud from his body he knows he has to stop him. Fionn doesn’t want to come like this. And he could. Easily. With shaking and reluctant hands he grabs Harry beneath his armpits when he next goes to take a breath and hoists him to his feet, leaving his mouth open in a wanting suck as he’s taken from Fionn’s dick. The second he’s standing, Fionn pushes Harry back on to the bed until Harry’s sprawled on his back, his legs falling open at the knees and his arms bent at the elbow to hold himself up.

When he knows he’s got Fionn’s full attention, Harry drags the back of his hand across his mouth and chin, licking around his lips hungrily to catch any missing wetness. He’s almost panting still and Fionn wants to wreck him.

“I thought you were going to come.” Harry says conversationally. “I could feel it. I could feel you getting harder in my mouth.”

“Harry,” Fionn warns, because really there’s nothing he can say to that. He can feel the pulse of his heartbeat in the head of his dick and at Harry’s words his knees almost buckle.

“Were you close?”

“I’m not any more,” Fionn lies.

“Do you want me to make you come?” And he does but he can’t make himself say so. Not when he doesn’t know how Harry will respond. “Or shall we do me first?”

Harry reaches down between his legs to touch himself, bypassing his flushed dick completely and tapping his index and middle finger experimentally against his arse hole. “Can you pass me my wash bag?”

Fionn doesn’t move. Harry continues.

“It should be at the top of my case. It’s the last thing I put in there.” Harry’s voice is casual, the strain of arousal only just noticeable. As he continues to rub his two fingers in small circles around the rosy skin of his hole, the muscles in his forearms jump eagerly.

Unsure of what else he can do to ignore the sight in front of him that he’s so painfully ill-equipped to deal with, Fionn turns to Harry’s bag in the doorway. As he drags the metal zip smoothly open along the length of the bag he sees that Harry was right. A small leather clutch bag rests just beneath the opening. Fionn reaches for it, startled when a small moan comes from behind him.

He whips his head around. On the bed, Harry has the very tip of his index finger inside himself.

“What are you doing, Harry?” he asks. He can feel the weight of the words in his mouth and his tongue’s heavy and he feels drunk. The second the words are in the air he can hear how disapproving he sounds, and it’s not what he means, it’s not what he wants to say. Harry’s face falls but he doesn’t move his hand.

“Getting ready.”

Fionn wants to ask what for. Harry doesn’t let him.

“For when you get over yourself and fuck me.”

Fionn wants to run from the room. To tuck his aching dick back into his boxers, fasten his trousers and bolt. He can smell their mingled arousal and taste the tea he drank at their last interview. He can see the deep flush of Harry’s chest and the way his nipples are harder than Fionn thought possible. In the near-silence, he can hear the dry pop when Harry experimentally takes his fingertip out of his hole before shallowly poking it back in. Fionn couldn’t leave if he tried.

He throws Harry’s wash bag to him. It lands noiselessly beside him on the bed. Harry pauses for a moment before taking the end of his finger from inside himself once again to reach into the bag. With an uncontrollable craving Fionn’s eyes are instantly drawn to Harry’s hand. To the finger tip that was just inside him. He doesn’t know what he expects to see but it’s been inside Harry and he needs to see that. It’s predictably dry and unremarkable Fionn notices as Harry draws out a bottle of lube.

Harry uncaps the bottle. “Are you going to do this, or am I?”

Fionn didn’t realise the option was open to him.

“You.” He says. It’s all he can manage.

Harry looks momentarily disappointed but squeezes a thick drizzle of lube onto his waiting fingers and fits them firmly against his hole before the liquid drips onto the bed sheets below.

“I thought you’d want to do this.” Harry says conversationally. “I thought you’d want to be in me somehow.”

Fionn cringes bodily at the acknowledgement of his desperation. At the implication that he’s that obvious.

“Are your fingers a bit too much?” Harry continues, rubbing his own wet fingers against himself. “You’ll touch me with your dick but not your fingers?” And it feels like Fionn’s being admonished but Harry’s just pressed both his index and middle finger inside himself and his chest’s shaking and he doesn’t look as scathing as he sounds.

Harry kicks out with one leg and manages to wrap it around the back of Fionn’s thigh where he’s standing, drawing him into the waiting triangle of his open legs. Fionn stumbles towards him pathetically. Where their bodies touch Fionn feels nothing static.

After a few moments of concentrated exploration, Harry’s fingers begin roughly pistoning inside his arse, his thumb and smallest two fingers held away from his body rigidly. The wetness of the lube inside him snaps with each punch of his fingers, and as Harry’s hand gains speed Fionn’s struck by how much it feels like watching a girl finger herself privately. The full-body shaking, the taut desperation, the precision and confidence that only comes from repeatedly being the one to make yourself come exactly the way you like it alone and unafraid. Harry pauses momentarily before adding a third finger, and as he does so he throws his head back, the short wave of his hair whipping up from where it had been resting around his ears, soft and sweaty.

“It’s just like fingering a girl really,” Harry breathes, and Fionn’s scared that he may have just thought aloud. “I’ve not got a clit,” he continues, grinding the heel of his palm into his taint in demonstration, “but it’s similar.”

Fionn nods, swallowing.

“Even you could manage it,” Harry teases. “Or you could just fuck me. I think you’d be better at that.” His fingers slow their almost punishing pace, as though he’s preparing to switch tactics. “If you’ve fucked a woman in the arse before, it’s not even anything new. You’ve already done it.”

Harry waits a moment when Fionn doesn’t respond, “I feel good inside, I promise.”

“You can’t just say that!” Fionn whines, holding his forehead in his hands.

“What?” Harry breathes.

“Things like that.”

“Why? Scared to find out?” And the teasing tone’s back. The flirty “You coaxed me into some things” lilt that drives Fionn wild.

“Harry…” Fionn warns.

“If you do me well enough, we can ask Tom and see if he wants to join in next time.”

Fionn’s dick burns with heat and he feels it jump as he clenches at Harry’s words. Beside Harry on the bed, Fionn notices Harry’s boxers, still balled up and forgotten. Before thinking, before even breathing, Fionn reaches down and picks them up. The fabric is still wet against his fingers. “I wish you’d shut up.”

Fionn flinches at his own words. Harry’s face is unsure. He stills his hand inside his arse, he stills everything, he’s barely moving and Fionn’s eyes are trained on the soft rise and fall of his chest that he can’t control.

Taking a deep breath, Fionn drags his palm along the searing heat of his dick. “Really. Sometimes, I just wish you would fucking shut up, Harry.”

He doesn’t mean it. Not really. Lately there’s nothing Fionn enjoys more than Harry’s voice despite what he may use it for. But not now. Not when Harry’s throwing himself at Fionn and he doesn’t know how to respond because how could he? Right now he needs Harry to stop. He needs to feel the control that he left at the door when he trailed in on Harry’s heels. Without thinking, Fionn takes the dirty boxers now clamped in his fist and shoves them messily into Harry’s obedient mouth, not missing how it opens for him.

Harry groans wet and throaty around the intrusion, clearly unable to make comprehensible sounds.

Fionn takes a breath. “Fucking finally.”

Without Harry’s inescapable mocking to blindside him, Fionn’s desperate to fill the gap. To cut through the silence of the room and make Harry actually listen for once.

“You really want me to fuck you, don’t you?” Fionn marvels, shocked at his own confidence but deliriously eager to relieve the tension that’s building inside him.

Harry whines, his hands fisting into the bed sheets beneath him and his legs stretching involuntarily as wide as possible. His body’s bowed, his arse angled up towards Fionn’s crotch as he wordlessly invites him in. Fionn steps forward. His dick is almost uncomfortably hard, and when he touches himself to angle it towards Harry’s wet waiting hole he can’t help but sigh into the feeling.

“Ready?” Fionn doesn’t expect Harry to answer but he doesn’t want to hurt him and he did interrupt Harry’s thorough fingering and he needs to know. He squeezes a cold splash of lube into his hand and applies it to his dick, flinching at the chill.

Harry nods eagerly, his eyes docile as he unclenches his fists from the sheets and reaches down to grab both arse cheeks and hold himself stretched open. Fionn can see the dark skin of Harry’s hole and the point at which it gives way to the deep pink flesh within and in one motion he lines himself up and presses inside.

Harry groans openly into his boxers, keeping himself spread wide as Fionn attempts to build some semblance of rhythm inside the vice of Harry’s arse. Harry was right, an arse really is just an arse. But no arse that Fionn’s ever had his dick in before belonged to Harry. And that’s the difference.

Punching his dick into Harry over and over, Fionn doesn’t think about the fact that they’re not using a condom. He barely thinks about the fact that Harry must’ve either known he was going to get fucked or at least keeps himself ready as Fionn looks down and sees his dick emerge from the heat of Harry’s body shiny wet with lube but clean and pink like if he was fucking a pussy.

“Did you know?” Fionn asks, speeding up as much as he dares.

Harry’s face is open and unashamed. He knows what Fionn’s asking. He nods quickly. Yes.

Harry’s dick rests heavy in messy puddle of pre-come against his stomach and each time Fionn thrusts inside him, sloppy and uncoordinated, it jumps.

“Look at you,” Fionn breathes, and Harry cries out, muffled and desperate. “You’re dripping.”

Emboldened by the ensuing delicious clench of Harry’s arse around him, Fionn continues. “Your arse just fucking takes it,” he says in disbelief. “Does it even hurt?” His voice is shot to shit but Harry can still make him out if the way he scrunches his face in overwhelmed arousal is any indication. Harry shakes his head again, the tendons in his neck bared.

Fionn drops his pelvis slightly to relieve the discomfort in his legs at the angle he chose, and with the adjustment Harry howls into his gag. His hands fall from where they were holding his arse and he quickly grabs himself again, nodding in pleasure and encouragement and need.

As Fionn thrusts in, Harry bears down against him and while the slide inside becomes that bit easier the resulting pull back is torturously tight. Fionn knows he’ll need to stop soon. He’ll have no choice. Because Fionn’s not massive. He’s not bothered but he’s just average. But something about the greedy way Harry’s holding himself open and asking for more and then more still makes Fionn want to fill every void Harry offers him and completely flood him with come.

When Harry clenches in rhythmn with Fionn, his arse seems to suck at Fionn’s dick much the way his mouth did and Harry’s attempting weakly to fuck back onto him but he can barely move on the bed, no leverage to thrust himself down, and no energy to do anything but take it. “It feels like it’s sucking me. Your arse. Fuck-”

As Fionn pulls out almost completely against the vacuum of heat, priming to slam back in and thrust Harry up the bed, a loud wet rattle of lube and moisture and suction sounds through the hotel room. Harry slams his head back against the bed at the sound.

“God Harry-” Fionn marvels. “Fuck, Jesus.”

Fionn feels the tell-tale pull of heat in his stomach and before he’s able to recognise the sensation and slow down, he’s teetering on the edge of coming and worryingly close. In a mad panic, he wraps his hands around Harry’s thighs where they’re wobbling precariously in the air on either side of him. He looks down at Harry for what feels like the first time as he lays there docile and eagre and wanting and beautifully hard. Fionn's hips have lost all rhythmic pace and he’s just fucking now and it’s tight and hot around him in a way that’s both comfortingly familiar and alien in the best way.

Realisation slaps Fionn out of his reverie. “I’m going to come inside you.” He says, almost afraid, his fingertips carving into the meat of Harry’s thighs. He doesn’t know if he’s telling Harry for his benefit or admitting it to himself, but he can’t stop, chasing oblivion inside Harry’s body. “Harry. Wait. Oh God, I’m going to come inside your arse. Fuck, Harry-”

The reality of it floors him and Fionn thrusts deeply, arching his back and even when he’s balls deep it’s not far enough. He wants to put everything he’s got right into the wet vice of Harry’s hole. He wants his hands and his tongue and his face inside him until he can’t breathe. And he comes.

As Fionn pulses wetly into Harry, he slows his thrusts, feeling each spurt milked out by the ripples of Harry’s hole. As he forces each pulse of come inside, it’s forced out around his sensitive dick and begins to bubble and leak at Harry’s entrance. Noticing the mess he’s making, Fionn pulls out and instantly the come trickles out from Harry, dislodged by Fionn's sloppy thrusts.

Fionn takes a step back back, pulling his foreskin up and over the head of his dick to extract every drop of come. Harry notices and grunts to attract Fionn’s attention, holding himself open further in invitation for Fionn to look at him. Without thinking, Fionn reaches out to touch. He touches the puffy skin of Harry’s hole, unafraid now. The skin is flushed like the dark of his nipples and sticky where Fionn’s come is still trailing out and between his cheeks onto the bed beneath.

“You’re leaking me everywhere,” Fionn breathes, dazed.

Harry whines and before Fionn can offer, he wraps a hand around himself desperately. It’s seconds before he’s coming creamy and thick onto his shivering stomach.

Harry shudders as he comes, but makes no move to remove his gag. Not wanting Harry to get uncomfortable, Fionn reaches out clumsily and drags the boxers out of Harry’s mouth. Thick trails of saliva drip from his mouth and fall stickily against his chin.

The second his mouth is unobstructed, Harry gestures down at himself, “look what you did.” But Fionn couldn’t stop if he wanted to. His eyes are glued to where Harry’s dark and fucked open and messy.

Harry clears his throat, rubbing at the corners of his mouth where they’re strained and tender. “What do you think, then? About Tom? Shall I?”

Fionn picks the boxers back up and brandishes them as though in a threat, “I’ll put them back in,” he warns. The words are empty. Fionn’s frazzled. Burnt out like a broken light bulb.

Harry can’t tell. “I’m counting on it."  



End file.
